


Ruin

by Backwardshirt



Category: Bleach
Genre: After TYBW, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Grimmjow POV, Grimmjow doesn’t like change, Introspection, M/M, Mentions Cannibalism, One Shot, Sickfic, Some Humor, Touching, and for where Grimmjow’s mind goes, angst with happy ending, complicated feelings, gigai grimmjow, rated for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-19 12:40:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29874804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Backwardshirt/pseuds/Backwardshirt
Summary: Where was he? Grimmjow had waited five days for Kurosaki to show, and still nothing. It was cold outside, Kisuke was irritating the hell out of him, and Kurosaki was MIA, all the things he hated, wrapped up in shitty packaging, a big middle finger drawn on the tag. He had to get out of the shoten soon, or else he’d lose what little sanity remained.
Relationships: Grimmjow Jaegerjaques/Kurosaki Ichigo
Comments: 10
Kudos: 119





	Ruin

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my WIP's for a little while.

Casually,

To see just your shadow,

I passed through

Your house’s gate

Several times.

Higuchi Ichiyo

Grimmjow threw a thick part of a half-broken icicle, watching as it shattered against the shoten wall. Snow fluttered around in an east wind, flakes sticking to his eyelashes. He hated the cold. Even worse in the fake human body—a gigai Kisuke called it—and air easily traveled up the sleeves on the thick coat forced on him this morning by said man.

He watched the cold thing break to tiny pieces, exploding sharp points of frozen winter in all directions. Kurosaki didn’t show up today, the fifth day in a row, not that he’s counting, that would be stupid, weak. He’s not waiting on him, he’s just bored, he thought. _Bored and sick of Kisuke’s shit._ Kurosaki wouldn’t forget, not with all that war shit that went down like a sack of concrete on everyone’s shoulders.

And he didn’t want to go inside either. Not back to that blond haired scientist with too much free time, or the freaky cat-lady, not even to the two brats that were annoying, but at least entertaining. And especially not to Tessai, who’d smacked him with a wooden spoon when he reached for a red fish during the morning meal telling him to _wait._ Grimmjow couldn’t remember the name, only the color like old blood.

He did like tasting things with the fake body. Sleeping was nice too—usually. Once he got used to it. Some nights he would still wake up and reach for his sword in a half-gone panic, pain from the poison fresh, renewed in this fake skin, but sometimes he wouldn’t. Half of him was still too vulnerable, but if he checked the weak wooden door enough times it was locked, widow shut tight, a small light plugged into the wall—it was so hard to see in the dark with the fake eyes, without his real vision, Jinta had said something about being scared of the dark, the little brat. He didn’t like _not seeing;_ dark in the human world was nirvana compared to the never-ending hellscape of Hueco Mundo’s deserts. There was nothing to be scared of, and fear was for cowards.

Being _exposed_ was the never-ending nightmare now. Flesh prison forced on him when he visited the world of the living was too soft. One little touch and blood gushed from every wrong place. It was like walking on glass and nails constantly. The first time Kisuke made him get into the gigai, he vomited from the bombardment of sensations. Sights, smells, the feeling of skin stretched over bundles and bundles of nerves. Everything was too much too quickly. He’d never felt that weak before. At least Kurosaki hadn’t seen him like that, and Kisuke, in the one serious moment he could have a day, promised to keep his mouth shut about it. Sensations were still overwhelming, but he could control it a little better now, especially with that idiot Shinigami around, taking his mind off things. 

Unless Kurosaki didn’t show up. Which he hadn’t. _For five fuckin’ days._ He’d never been away from the shop that long before. Even if it was to get something for one of his house-members, some shitty candy, all bright colors, taste too sweet. Ururu gave him a handful one time, all mismatching tastes at the same time, and it turned his stomach. At the time, he was only used to the taste of weak reishi, blood, and ash. Sweetness almost made him vomit all over the floor. At least, that’s what Kisuke called the sensation he was feeling—dry heaving, when nothing came out, but wanted too. _Human bodies are shit._

Right now, a different Kurosaki was lurking around inside—similar to the ginger, but younger. Weaker. Taking the other’s place, like he wouldn’t return. Establishing a new routine, and Grimmjow wasn’t one for change. Things were fine the way they were—Kurosaki would come every other day, sometimes they’d fight, sometimes they wouldn’t. Usually they would, in one way or another.

Play fighting was just as entertaining as slicing and dicing the Shinigami. That, and he wouldn’t be bitching to heal his wounds in that weird-ass springs in the keeper’s basement training grounds. Grimmjow didn’t know what it was filled with, but it sure as hell wasn’t ordinary water. IT made his skin feel weird, even with his hierro. Sparring days were the only times he was allowed out of the gigai in the human world, so he tried to drag it out as long as he could.

“So, are you just gonna stay out here sulking all day?” a voice called out—female. Turning left, he locked eyes on one younger Kurosaki—there were two of them apparently, he’d never seen the other one, or at least, didn’t remember.

“Tch. What would I be sulkin’ about, brat?” It was a rhetorical question, not that the black-haired girl seemed to understand. 

“Kisuke says you’re pouty Ichigo hasn’t shown up.”

Grimmjow felt his eye twitch, and refused to answer. And he didn’t _pout,_ either. He killed shit. Shit that was annoying and asking too many questions about things he didn’t want to think about. He kicked the other half of the icicle laying by his feet. It had broken off where the roof met the wall, at the metal overhang. Bare hands stung with cold, nearly numb, but he pretended not to notice. He’d sooner freeze than go back inside to that stuffy household, with its nosey inhabitants.

“Look, he’s just sick right now. There’s a bug going around. He’ll be fine in a few more days.”

 _A few more days?_ He’d kill the entirety of the shoten in that time. Well, Kisuke. Or he’d try. He couldn’t catch the cat-woman, not that he’d ever tell her that. She probably already knew, but damned if he’d admit it. Maybe he should go back to Hueco Mundo for a little while—he hadn’t been back in ages. The room he stayed in, _his_ room, or _palace_ or whatever shitty-Aizen let _his_ espada call it, reminded him of his dead friends.

Not that he ever called them that to their faces.

He didn’t like being reminded of that either. His fight with Kurosaki in the desert, that was supposed to be catharsis, but he didn’t win. What was a loss called?

Kisuke called it _grief._

Grimmjow just called it a _pain in the ass._

His face must’ve shown something. Controlling facial expressions wasn’t a _new_ thing, but they came a hellova lot easier with the fake skin. Moved easier—less resistance. More feeling.

Black haired Kurosaki sighed a resigned sound, but stood firm, eyes still locked on his hunched form, hands stuffed in pockets to get a little bit of body heat— _whatever the hell that was—_ into pin-prickling fingers.

“If you promise to behave—”

_What the fuck, I’m not some house pet—_

“You can come with me. Ichigo will hate it.” She grinned at him, and for a moment, he felt a kindred soul, bent on at least a little bit of mischief at the expense of the ginger. Scrutinizing her form once more, to see if she was lying, her posture gave no indication of such things. She turned and started walking; Grimmjow followed after she took a few steps, not stopping.

“Might make him feel better, though,” she said. Grimmjow wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or not, so he didn’t answer, keeping his face carefully blank as she turned, glancing behind her shoulders. He didn’t bother asking why his presence over the Shinigami, and a _sick_ one at that, would be anything other than ominous. If he was sick enough to be down for five days already, who’s to say he wasn’t bordering on death? Maybe Grimmjow would take the opportunity to kill him in his weakened state? Put him out of his misery and to his permanent soul form—that would show him. Drag him back to Hueco Mundo and beat the ever-living shit out of him then. Over and over again until everything bled out on the sand like a curse.

_No fun in that,_ he thought, looking up to the sky, where snow was falling, flakes thick, cold on the skin of his face. The spot where his mask was supposed to be ached like an old wound. _Technically is one, I guess._ He scratched his cheek on his shoulder, wiping away any remaining dampness of snow. He could feel Pantera whip her tail around in his subconscious, still evident, visible, when he was in a gigai. She was always there, just…muted. Subdued. Content, even. The fight, chase, prey, was nice, but all the time was exhausting.

After Aizen, Grimmjow remembered laying in the sand beneath the fake sun for…he didn’t know how long it was, but in human time, it was probably months, if not longer, until the Quincy’s bared their dull teeth. Then it was hell all over again. By the time he’d rescued Kisuke’s idiot brigade, he was half out of his mind with exhaustion, not that he ever let on. Kisuke figured it out, perceptive bastard, offered him a little rest in exchanged to aid. Someone always wanted something. Whatever.

Kurosaki though. Kurosaki was different. The way his eyes scoured the cheering crowd, victory the Quincy God was dead, _all hail our twice-hero,_ like he was looking for someone. Grimmjow walked away from the crowd feeling like his flesh was going to slip right off his bones. The noise was too much, even in his regular body, or maybe because of it. Nel still held what safety he could feel from another, reasonable hollow.  
There, among countless Shinigami who would rather she, and himself died in that poisoned ball, he wasn’t welcomed. Wasn’t wanted, and he felt the same. The tides would turn again, someday, washing them out to war and disaster again. That was the game, right? If nothing else, Hueco Mundo was a safety net for the damned. A catch-all for the vile and unwanted.

Until Kurosaki caught his arm. Finger pads rough against his supposed un-feeling hierro, asked him— _him,_ as the idiot soul reaper, broken and bleeding himself, armor shattered, shihaksho shredded, face bloody—asked if _he_ was okay.

 _Tch, I’m here aren’t I,_ he had replied. Except he wasn’t. Not all of him. That bastard— _Askin, or whatever his name was—_ he’d taken something from him. _Carelessness._ Grimmjow fought with desperation of the dying. They all were, in a sense, but in that moment, right after he shoved his hand through the Quincy’s lanky body, and pushed the bastard’s heart right out of his chest, he lay, dying on the ground, realizing he didn’t _want_ to.

He didn’t want to die.

Not like this, anyway.

That was the real curse Aizen forced on them with the _Hōgyoku_. The desire, not just to get stronger for strength itself, but to _live._ Their consciousness had been brought back from the brink of insanity. Given whatever second chance Hueco Mundo could offer. Survival of the fittest was better than nothingness. And damnit he wanted too. Like he was some stupid Shinigami himself. To _live_ so he could see and _fight_ Kurosaki again, not to the death, but just for the hell of it. Because he _wanted too._ That was the only thing that got him out of that ball of death.

Well, that and Nel’s hairy goat ass.

And where did that little team up get him? Shackled in a gigai, under the supposed prospects of being Hueco Mundo’s _representative_ to the _human world_ or whatever that meant. _Fancy title for a prisoner._ He knew he could go back to Hueco Mundo at any time, Kisuke didn’t really care, but there was…worse. Only so many bones in the desert he could crush underfoot before all the cracks sounded the same. Only so many times Nel could collide into him before he got tired of that feeling, even with the hierro.

No matter how he replayed it, every time, over and over, the pain in his lungs, blood gushing from his mouth, nose, eyes, it was always his own fault. He didn’t have to say yes. Didn’t have to help them. He’d asked Nel, when they’d been left alone for a while, tending to their own wounds with pride only a few hollows had, _why do I feel like this?_

 _Like what,_ she’d asked, looking at him with her big gray eyes. She knew more of feeling than any hollow he knew so he told her all the fucked-up shit coming up inside his supposed hollowed out chest, as he tried to keep from bleeding all over their makeshift tent.

His hollow whole _ached_ , like there was a muscle there instead, and it was all knotted up. Twisting and turning his guts into a lacework of nerves and sensations he didn’t understand. Almost two years had passed since he’d saw Kurosaki, and that only made the feeling worse. Where the ginger touched his arm had _burned_. Grimmjow thought it was just the poison, hopefully. Nel had another thought.

 _Ruin,_ she said, all smiles and glee gone from her face. For a moment, she looked as hardened and cold as any other arrancar. It sent chills down his spine. And then the look was gone. He didn’t understand, told her as much. _You will,_ she said, shaking her head at him, teal-green hair bloodied and matted together in clumps. How Nel could be so kind in the face of such desolation, such… _ruin,_ as she called it, he didn’t understand. She had those two idiots, ever following her around, calling them her _brothers._ Maybe that helped. Maybe it didn’t. It was hard to say. They were all fucked up on the inside.

Once, when he was back in the white sands, alone, he looked at those great pillars, the crumbling rocks, cracked uselessness, and saw himself.

Whatever he fought for, what he _wanted,_ it wasn’t on this side of the moon anymore.

_Maybe that’s what Nel had meant._

He let black-haired Kurosaki lead a few paces ahead. He knew the general area where the ginger lived, especially with how his spirit energy swirled around like a damned sandstorm, but sensing it in the gigai was.... He was just as blind as the Shinigami was normally.

Buildings were close together, too many big windows, peering into lives of so many humans he couldn’t care less about if he tried. Their lives were so short, fleeting, in a terrifying way. How they put up with it, he didn’t know. Didn’t want too. How it didn’t scare Kurosaki shitless, he didn’t understand.

He couldn’t remember what it was like being human, so it’s not like it mattered in the end. And remembering wouldn’t do him any good. Memories of a time, what, decades, _centuries_ ago? Pointless. He was a hollow for a reason, no use bringing up memories that would cause a misstep. The _how,_ or _why,_ even the _who_ was irrelevant. Time didn’t matter to a dead man, anyway.

 _Huh, maybe I am pouting._ He’d keep that to himself too. Mountains/molehills after all, not that he knew what that meant. He’d need to read something other than Kisuke’s stupid book of wise-man sayings, but everything else he had was gross, so maybe he should give up reading all together. But it was the only other way to pass the time when Kurosaki wasn’t around to irritate.

“You are the guy he fights with, right?” The girl said, breaking him out of his head.

He blinked a couple times before answering.

“Yeah, so?”

“You seem…different, than what I expected.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

So, Kurosaki talked about him a little when he was out of earshot, which was a weird thing he’d dissect later. Grimmjow expected he only existed to the Shinigami when they fought, otherwise, the ginger had a life revolving around things that were decisively not trying to kill him on a regular basis.

And what did she mean by different? He wasn’t acting different, just bored out of his mind without a Kurosaki to fight. He _should_ probably go back to Hueco Mundo, he was due for it, nearly a month had passed since he’d been back at all, but it was worse there. The emptiness was endless, and if there was something he didn’t need help feeling, it was empty.

Not that he’d let that slip by his fangs either. That was just another side of being a hollow, of _being_ hollow. _Ah shit,_ he needed to also stop reading some of Tessai’s weird poetry books. They all said the same thing anyway, and end the end, it just made the emptiness worse. Maybe looking at a sick ginger Kurosaki would make him feel better. What was that one saying? 

_Misery loves company,_ he thought as the little Kurosaki stopped in front of a large white living space. Even in his gigai, he could feel the residual spirit energy seeping through the fake skin, prickling at his hollow hole within, but it felt…weird. If he had to describe it, he’d say it felt…upside down. Backwards. Pantera hissed in the back of his head, circling, turning around and prowling, urging him to hunt, but he shushed her. The girl turned around and looked at him again, this time at a closer distance.

“Dad’s working right now, and Yuzu is probably baking or doing something to distract Kon from irritating Ichigo the rest of the way to the grave, so just let me handle it, okay?” Grimmjow didn’t understand what most of that meant, but nodded anyway, pretending not to care, as she opened the door and stepped in, motioning with a single arm to follow.

He watched as she kicked off her shoes beside the door, did the same, and followed her down the hall, where, as she promised, another small Kurosaki, judging by the appearance anyway, was in a kitchen area, shuffling around with a dish in her hands, as a small soft looking thing watched.

“Maybe if you drug him up enough, he’ll finally admit it?” the small thing said, crossing its arms, and Grimmjow lingered back in the arch of the hallway, watching the interaction. Was the him Kurosaki? What did he need to admit? And what in the hell was the soft thing? It looked like it was supposed to be some kind of animal, but…it wasn’t doing a very good job at it.

“No, that won’t do, and you should know better than that, Kon.” The girl looked kind of similar to the other, but her hair was different, and he face was softer, eyes rounder and gentler looking. The soft thing hunched over.

“I know, but I’m so sick of his pini—”

“I brought company!” The black hair said, knocking soft thing on the back of its…his…head? Lighter hair turned to Grimmjow, still leaning against the archway like a wary animal rather an invited guest. Were all the Kurosaki’s this stupid? Of course, he couldn’t do much in his fake body, but he was still strong enough to murder a couple of weak little girls and rip up a sentiment stuffed animal, not that he’d ever do something so reckless, at least where Kurosaki was concerned.

The kids didn’t do anything to warrant any ill type of behavior, much less murder, and despite what _some_ people thought, he did have a couple of manners.

That and Jinta and Ururu were the only two out of the shoten-pack he could stand on a regular basis, the little brats. At least the littler humans were interesting.

“Oh, hello!” Light hair was close. Very close. Big, round eyes staring up at him with a weird, analytical look. Grimmjow leaned his head back to get some distance without moving his feet backward like a coward. Maybe the younger ones weren’t so interesting after all.

“You must be Ichi-nii’s…friend, right?”

 _Why did she hesitate?_ If Kurosaki had spoken about him, then it should be obvious _friend_ is the last thing he’d be. He’d tried to kill him three times in earnest, everything else was just posturing. Grimmjow didn’t have a keen idea on human friendships, but he was pretty sure attempted homicide wasn’t a component of them. Then again, Kurosaki was different. Normal things didn’t apply to him most of the time.

“Sure.”

It’s not like he could tell them that though. Maybe Kurosaki lied to save face with the smaller ones? Hell if he knew; this pack dynamic was softer than this own. Well, his previous one, anyway. If one of his fraccion got in his face like this kid, they’d lose their nose at least. Most of them knew not to do that, save for Di Roy. He was an outlier and shouldn’t be counted, the idiot. 

The girl just smiled at him, all big and innocent and kind of creepy. The showing of teeth was almost always an indication of malice in every other beast; he didn’t understand why humans had to be so different. 

“Ichi-nii is upstairs in his room sleeping. Do you want to go see him now or wait until a little later when he wakes up?”

Why the fuck was she asking that? Wasn’t the whole point of him coming over to go irritate the ginger, rather than babysit these two? Why the hell would he want to wait; he should do it as soon as possible, maybe punch him a couple times in the stomach, and leave the way he came feeling none the better, but hopefully not worse.

But the girl was looking at him with weird, pleading eyes, that made him stall. Ururu used a similar look on him a couple of times when she wanted him to train her, entertain Jinta for a bit so he’d leave her alone, or some weird combination of the two. Nel saw it and tried once, but it wasn’t as effective.

The girl must have sensed his hesitation, as she carefully reached up a hand and tugged at his coat, pulling him towards the kitchen, where a couple of taller stools stood, along with a rather irritated looking stuffed lion. He let her lead him there, stopping when she stopped, and watched her turn to the stuffed thing. A lion, by the looks of it.

“Kon, you be _nice,_ ” she said, pointing a wagging finger at the huffy creature before letting go and walking around the other side of the counter.

“Maybe I should go get Ichigo _now?_ He’d probably bolt right outta—“

“I think Yuzu would cut you up and fry you for dinner if you tried,” the black-haired one said, hands on her hips, eyeing the stuffed thing.

“Synthetic fibers would melt in a fryer, and turn into one big ball, but the sentiment remains,” the light haired one—Yuzu, apparently—said with a non-convincing smile. “Please refrain from being mean to Grimmjow-san.”

Grimmjow stopped. How the hell did she—

“Oh, sorry, Ichi-nii talks about you a lot,” she said, turning once more to him, sickly sweet smile still on her face. She had dimples like Jinta did. Ururu never smiled that big so he didn’t know about her. They were probably around the same age, he figured. More importantly, what the hell did Kurosaki have to say about him? They fought. That was it, wasn’t it? Though recently he’d been staying a little after their fights, as they breathed in the dust, together, laying on the ground in the underground chamber, bodies bloodied, beaten. Bruised. They didn’t really talk, though. Just breathed in the same stale air, sweaty and panting. At least, not often—not that Grimmjow minded conversation; he just never had much to say. He didn’t change like the others, not as quickly. Hueco Mundo was still the same white sands, and would be for another thousand years. 

“Hmphf, more like he never shuts up about—” A door to the left swung open with ferocity, a man wearing a long white coat, black hair, and a face scruffier than Kisuke’s waltzing through.

“My darling babies! I heard your voices from the clinic, and I wanted to check….” He stopped in his tracks, eyeing Grimmjow with a pointed, narrow gaze.

“What is an arrancar doing in my home?”

The man was as tall as Grimmjow, and even a little broader in the shoulders. Grimmjow stood tall, staring straight back at the guy. _How much has Kurosaki been saying, exactly? Bastard Shinigami._

The man took strides towards him until they were standing, staring each other down, not two feet apart. The black-haired girl raised up a hand and plastered it against the mans face, pushing him back.

“Relax old geezer, I brought him here. Kisuke said he was all grouchy and pouty—”

“I don’t pout—”

“And you just let him come into our home where you and Yuzu stay!” The man took off towards the other side of the room, arms raised above his head, fake tears flowing down his stupid, bearded face, white coat fluttering after him, similar to the white haori he’d seen the Shinigami captains wear, except stupid looking in his movements, like it was tailored just for him.

“Oh Masaki! Our idiot son’s bad decision making is rubbing off on our beautiful daughters!”

Grimmjow scowled at the scene, flicking his gaze between the old man and the girls face-palming in the kitchen, unsure of what he was looking at. And what was that giant photograph put up on the wall. Masaki? Who was that? He only smelled the two girls, this whacked-out guy—their father, apparently, Ichigo’s few rants about the guy seemed true—and Ichigo’s sickly scent in the house. Not a fifth. Well, sixth, if he was counting the weird stuffed animal, but it didn’t have much of a smell, not that he could smell very well in the human body. He could pick up the scents on Kurosaki when they sparred. It was obvious they were a close-knit pack.

“Don’t worry about him, he’s just stupid.” The black haired one said.

“Karin, you be nice too! He’s just worrying.”

Yuzu waved around a wooden spoon in the air, as if it could emphasize her point.

“He’s annoying. We’ve fifteen. Besides, if I thought this guy,” Karin jutted a thumb behind her at Grimmjow, “was going to hurt me, do you really think I’d let him come along?”

“You are Grimmjow, I take it,” the man said, rising from his weird kneeling beside the big poster, wiping a trail of snot on his white sleeve, leaving a disgusting darker white line on it. Grimmjow frowned at the sight, but nodded anyway.

“Yeah, and?”

The guy frowned in thought, taking in the whole of him before turning towards the staircase to his right, closer to where he sensed Ichigo’s presence. His space must be primarily up there.

He motioned for Grimmjow to follow him, and he hesitated, looking to the reasonable one of the little girls. Yuzu nodded that it was okay, so he walked over to the man, who began to ascend the stairs.

The man-what did Ichigo call him? Iss…something-made no conversation as they walked up, only glancing once behind him while they moved, to see if Grimmjow was still following him, he guessed.

Stopping at a door with the number 15 on it, the man crossed his arms and gave Grimmjow a stern look.

“What are your intentions with Ichigo?”

Grimmjow snorted. He really was an idiot, huh? At least Kurosaki hadn’t lied to him when he said the guy was a little…how did he put it? _Off his rocker._

“I’m gonna punch him in the throat.”

The man stared at him for a split second, eyebrows furrowed, before his entire face relaxed, a bare smile upturning one corner of his mouth. Not quite the reaction he expected, but whatever. _This pack is fucked up._

He opened the door, stopping it halfway and stepped away, allowing Grimmjow to peer in through the doorway.

Ichigo lay in his bed, the covers all tangled around his legs like vines growing in masse around his feet and ankles, worming around his calves as he moved with jerky, violent movements. 

“I think the dreams are about you. He won’t talk about them, though,” the man said, standing beside Grimmjow an arms distance away. He wasn’t looking through the open door, but Grimmjow guessed he’d seen it before. 

_Tch._ Probably. Hopefully.

By the movements Kurosaki was making in the bed, it wasn’t a good dream either. More like a nightmare. Knowing that idiot, it would be him dying by the arrancar’s hands, not being able to save his precious little friends. Grimmjow was the monster made hollow, flesh harder than iron, all sharp teeth and bloody claws, ripping into the soul reaper’s chest like he did that Quincy. His heart beating slower and slower between his taloned fingers, piercing the soft muscle until it stopped beating altogether. He’d had the same nightmare—killing Ichigo. Over and over again, claws dripping with shiny, thick crimson.

Grimmjow had that dream more than he’d like to admit. Hands tearing through Kurosaki’s broken body, again and again, until blood stopped flowing, stopped gushing, his pleas growing softer and softer. Until his voice stopped completely. His voice always stopped, but his eyes. _Those damned eyes, I hate those eyes._ Always, _always,_ forgiving him. Every single time. He’d give and give and give until nothing of himself remained. And it _pissed him off, damnit._ If nothing remained of Kurosaki, that meant he was dead. And he had no use for a dead Kurosaki.

Maybe his death didn’t feel right because it was final. Death meant the Shinigami would fuck off to the Soul Society; maybe he’d never see him again. Or he’d have to claw his way through seven thousand layers of bureaucratic soul society bullshit just to fight him when he was bored. If he had to fill out some kind of request form to fight the idiot, he’d rather just eat him. He could probably argue with him whenever the hell he wanted then, though he wasn’t certain. It wasn’t something he’d tried before.

The man patted his shoulder once, and left, leaving the door open. Grimmjow took that as an invitation to invade the ginger’s privacy. Shrugging off his coat, he dropped it in the corner, closed the door, and walked over to the bed where Kurosaki lay. The sheets were twisted tightly around his bare legs, shirtless chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, body coated in a thin sheen of sweat. The sun was still up, and it let in enough light to see how sallow his skin looked. A small fan was sitting on a messy desk, oscillating back and forth with a slow breeze.

His head jerked to the side and the ginger let out a small, strangled sound, desperate. Almost pleading. An arm came up, twitching at his chest, right where Grimmjow knew his heart was, scratching the area roughly, leaving a trail of red marks.

Legs twitched, kicked once, the blankets twisting around his lower body more with the movement.

Grimmjow saw his hand reach out against his will—didn’t realize he was doing it until he stopped it, hovering over Kurosaki’s chest, where his hand was.

He’d never seen him sleep before—always forgot he was human first, with how much strength and power the brat had. Hell, he’d basically fought god and won. Twice. Each wannabe deity more powerful than the last. How many other people could say the same? Certainly not him, though, not for lack of trying.

Kurosaki was still scratching at his chest, nearly bringing up blood, and Grimmjow lowered his hand, pressing it flat over the ginger’s, feeling his heartbeat underneath his fingers. Whatever heart, blood-pumping-organ-thing in his chest that made the gigai live, nearly stopped at the rapid thumping under his hand. So, this was the human heart Ulquiorra was so obsessed with. Sucking in a lungful of air, Grimmjow forced himself to breathe through a sudden overwhelming sensation. Loss. The space where his hollow hole should be ached indiscriminately, radiating outward towards where his ‘heart’ should be. Just like it had on that day, when Kurosaki defeated that Quincy god.

 _Ruin,_ Nel’s voice echoed into the back of his mind.

_What the fuck?_

Fingers stopped twitching, and after a moment, Kurosaki began to stir. One honey amber eye opened, and then the other, blinking slowly as he registered Grimmjow before him, who had lowered himself on the side of the bed, sitting next to his sweaty, half-dressed body.

“G-Grimmjow? Wha..” Kurosaki tried to sit up, but faltered in his raise, arms trembling, settling to sit up on his elbows instead of whatever he was planning, before he lowered himself back down on shaky arms. “What are you doing here?” His face was flushed red, sweat beaded on his forehead.

“Your sister brought me here.” Grimmjow watched as Kurosaki flinched when he said that, like the mere thought of him following the smaller girl here brought him physical pain. As it should, really. He was a killer, after all. Even if he did feel a little guilty at watching him back away.

“Said you were sick.” Grimmjow’s hand was still on his chest, trapping the other’s hand against himself. He let him pull it out, even allowed him to run his sweaty palm along his arm, as if to check if he had his claws in, to make sure there was no danger. Or at least, the smallest amount possible. His hand wasn’t as calloused as Grimmjow assumed it would be. Must be that human skin. The gigai was close, but ultimately, was an imitation of the real thing. The ginger seemed to relax a little at that statement, even though it made no sense to him.

Kurosaki hummed, eyes slipping closed, hand wrapping loosely around Grimmjow’s wrist. He could pull away if he wanted, but, looking at Kurosaki sick, sent an interesting stir of emotions around his insides.

“Something…like that,” his voice was quiet, gravely. Breath slow, ragged sounding. Like he had something shoved in his lungs and was breathing around it.

Grimmjow could see the flush on his bare skin, under the sweat. He smelled…wrong. Looked worse. He’d looked like this for _five fuckin’ days? Couldn’t that healing woman do something about this?_

“You dyin’ on me?” Grimmjow didn’t like how his voice sounded. Quieter. Softer. _Human._ Betraying his concern—Kurosaki didn’t seem to notice in his fever state. Maybe he thought this was all a dream.

“Tch,” he paused to cough, a harsh, hacking rattling around in his body. Grimmjow frowned at the sickening sound. Was he supposed to be yucking up his insides? That didn’t seem right. Wasn’t his old man a doctor or some shit? Why was nobody doing anything about this?

“Like you’d let me do that. I’ll be fine in a couple more days.”

“And if you’re not?” He said that too quickly, he realized, as Ichigo popped a single eye open and looked at him all funny, eye almost crossed, a small, lopsided smile forming on his face.

“You must really miss fighting me if you came all this way to ask.”

Grimmjow felt heat rise and tint his stupid gigai ears a different color. These reactions were annoying.

The way Kurosaki looked at him turned his tense muscles to mush, even though he really, _really_ wanted to be tense and rough right now. Pantera was telling him to _run_ or _fight_ not _sit on a sick idiot’s bed and listen to him cough up a lung._

“I could kill you right now. You should be scared.”

Kurosaki barely held back a chuckle, though it sounded more like a frog croak—Jinta had caught one in the rain and squeezed it’s belly to make it sound, it pissed on his hand afterwards.

“Could. But you won’t.”

Grimmjow ran his hand up his bare chest slowly, feeling the taut muscles of his chest, the rising and falling taking more effort than what was probably normal for him, until it met the base of his neck. Wrapping a hand around, he squeezed only slightly, thumbing across the strength held there. It would be so easy. Bite down, tear and rend flesh from bone. Even in the gigai, his fangs were strong. Kisuke couldn’t take that away.

“That worried about me, huh?”

Grimmjow didn’t answer him. Didn’t remove his hand. Pantera growled somewhere in his skull, but he couldn’t pinpoint her location anymore—Kurosaki’s scent and sickness muddled up the last of his reasonable senses. It made him a little sleepy.

Sweaty hand on his, the one wrapped around the ginger’s neck like a noose. Not pulling it away. Just resting.

“I don’t worry about things,” Grimmjow said, more to himself than the man laying on the bed, both eyes half open, blinking restless sleep from honey-brown eyes, like the sun was forever setting, encased in the ginger’s gaze until the sun no longer existed. Knowing him, he’d probably outlive it in his Shinigami form, just to spite it.

“I do.”

 _Tch, no kidding._ That was an obvious statement if Grimmjow had ever heard one. Tugging on his wrist, pulling him down weakly. Grimmjow rolled his eyes. What, now he wanted…what? Grimmjow to lay on him? That’s rich. The savior of the three worlds sick and sleeping with an arrancar splayed across his chest. He didn’t budge. 

“Kurosaki,” he started, raising a blue eyebrow at him.

“Ichigo.”

Grimmjow frowned as he tugged again.

“What?”

“You can call me Ichigo. We’re not enemies anymore Grimmjow. Haven’t been for a long time.” Ichigo coughed weakly again, and tugged one last time on his wrist, breaking it away from his neck, trying to pull it across his shoulder and into the mattress.

Kurosaki was a fool. A big dumbass fool with a big dumbass human heart that felt too much, all the time. Like living with a perpetual open wound, and he didn’t want it closed. He made Grimmjow feel too much. How much he wanted Kurosaki— _Ichigo—_ to touch him right then, was disgusting. He wasn’t made to be touched. If it wasn’t for Aizen, he’d…he’d….

He’d probably still be wandering those endless white sands, eating continuously to try and survive another day. To _evolve._ He didn’t need to do that anymore, but still felt himself wanting to swallow Ichigo whole. More and more though, Grimmjow didn’t want to do it in a way that would hurt. He just…wanted to keep him. With him, inside him, hell if he understood what all that shit meant.

“Lay down with me for a bit?”

Grimmjow stiffened. What for? Grimmjow wasn’t some body pillow, or a thing meant for comfort.

“Please?” Ichigo’s voice sounded strained. “I-I don’t want to have that nightmare again.”

Sick Ichigo was worse than normal Ichigo. He was normally at least a little more reserved, as far as what exactly was going on in that thick skull of his. But he never…. It almost sounded like he was pleading, _begging_. Grimmjow didn’t like it. Not like that anyway.

Grimmjow complied, if only to get him to shut up.

So he crawled up beside the sick human, in the space between his body and the wall. The bed wasn’t exactly big, so he was smushed up against Ichigo, both on their side, the ginger’s head pressed up against his shoulder.

“What was it about?” He asked when the silence was too much. Even as Ichigo breathed raggedly beside him, getting him all sweaty and gross, he needed something _more._ Noise. Hell, he’d take a coughing fit over the suffocating silence, or his body would implode from the inside out. He felt Ichigo’s head shift, burrowing deeper into the juncture between neck and shoulder as he let out a hot breath across sensitive sin. 

“You.”

Grimmjow swallowed, felt a single shiver run through Ichigo’s body.

“Tch. Figured. Was I killing someone you loved again?”

Ichigo said nothing, letting the silence flow back into what space lay between them.

_Bingo._

“You were dying.”

_What?_

_That’s_ what got him so worked up? Was that…were those nightmares normal for him? Is that what his father had meant?

“You’re always dying. Over and over. I’m always too late.”

Why would that upset the ginger so much? Grimmjow was…well, he wasn’t sure he was an enemy of Kurosaki’s anymore, but he definitely didn’t think they had trespassed into the _friend_ category. Grimmjow didn’t have _friends_. His fraccions had been _companions_ , he supposed. But never _friends._ Nel was a reluctant equal, but not a friend. Harribel was the ruler of the white sands. Kisuke an ally he never wanted, but agreed to nonetheless. Yoruichi was just batshit crazy.

Ichigo was…what was _Ichigo_?

He upset the balance, like always. Threw everything out of whack. Tilted the scales in his favor. Always in his favor. Shifted the white sand around, through a sieve, filtering out everything unwanted. His bones didn’t feel so heavy next to him, but what did that mean? Was Grimmjow… _wanted_ by Ichigo?

Grimmjow pressed a palm against Kurosaki’s chest, feeling the thrumming of his heart beneath dead fingers.

“Too late for what,” Grimmjow asked, already knowing the answer.

He felt his heartbeat flutter unrhythmically for a couple seconds as the ginger’s breath hitched, slender fingers curling around Grimmjow’s forearm like a vice. Even sick, he was strong.

“To help.”

Ichigo propped his head up slightly, looking Grimmjow in the eyes, gaze miles away. He didn’t know what Ichigo was looking at, but at that moment, it wasn’t him.

“I’m so sick of watching people die.” And then he was back, seeing Grimmjow fully.

Grimmjow understood. He didn’t voice he _didn’t ask for it,_ even in his dreams. Not that it would stop the ginger anyway. When the war first ended, Ichigo seemed fine. He always seemed fine. But when they sparred for the first time after, it was clear he wasn’t. It took Grimmjow beating the shit out of him a couple of times for him to get his head out of his ass and keep going, but he did. He still wasn’t fine, but he was getting there. It took Grimmjow a while to understand that Ichigo didn’t have a savior complex, he just didn’t want any more people to die.

_Maybe he’s a ruin too._

“You can’t save everyone,” Grimmjow said, wrapping an arm around him, laying a hand on the middle of his back, pressing him closer. Ichigo turned, looking up around the shell of Grimmjow’s ear.

“I haven’t. But I wanted too.”

“We don’t always get what we want,” Grimmjow said softly, nuzzling his cheek lightly against Ichigo’s sweaty scalp.

“What do you want,” Ichigo asked him, looking up suddenly, gripping the collar of his jacket between long fingers, forcing his head off the other’s. Grimmjow frowned, thinking. 

Waxing poetic about being king was one thing. But Kurosaki had, not shockingly, been correct. What was the point if he had no subjects? No kingdom. No people. No place. Just bones in the desert waiting for a rain that would never come.

_To belong,_ he thought suddenly.

He wanted to rest.

He wanted…things he shouldn’t want. He was a hollow.

“Hollows don’t get what we want.”

That was how things were, how they’d always been. You died unsatisfied, turned into a monster, hungry to fill the void created when you were alive, and, if you were lucky, got to live long enough to realize it all over again.

“What if you could?”

 _Damn,_ this kid wasn’t giving up, huh? Girmmjow didn’t see why it mattered so much to him. It’s not like Kurosaki would do anything, _could_ do anything about it. They were sparring partners, that should be enough, right? He was a human first. Did human things. Born and would die a human. Grimmjow wouldn’t change in that time.

“Grimmjow,” Ichigo croaked out, brushing a warm hand over the mask-less side of his face. Grimmjow flinched at the softness of the touch. People weren’t soft with him. Blood. Broken bones. Teeth gnashing and crashing, swords colliding, violent sparks against screeching steel. A warrior hardened by his lifecycle. 

Ichigo was human. He always had been. Looking at him now, face red with a temperature, calloused, yet soft hand against his face, touching him delicately, as if he would shatter into insurmountable pieces, Grimmjow saw the humanity in him. The light, like the sun, rising up over the surface of everything, bringing light and warmth into all that he touched. Why couldn’t he feel that warm, at least in his gigai?

But he was a creature of darkness. Before Aizen, after Aizen. It didn’t matter. 

He tried to sit up, untangle himself from Kurosaki’s light.

Distance.

Run.

Hide.

No matter how cold he was—this wasn’t something he was meant for.

“Grimmjow stop.”

Ichigo sat up with him fully, eyes like he’d never been sick in the first place. Hands encircled his wrists. He was so warm. Grimmjow found himself wanting to crawl inside and devour. He wanted that warmth—not to himself, but so he could feel it like Ichigo did.

Hands left his wrists, traveled up his clothed chest, met at his face, skipping his neck completely. Cupping his face, Grimmjow felt the hands urge him forward and down, closer into Ichigo’s space. Where was he supposed to go?

Ichigo pulled him down far enough, and pressed his forehead to Grimmjow’s, locking those dusky eyes on his own

“I’m not asking you to let me save you. Just let me sit with you, in the sand or dark or where ever you are.”

If Grimmjow had a heart in his gigai, it stopped at those words. Echoing around in his skull, it took a few moments to register the nature of his words.

His chest tingled, a warmth, this time from inside, radiated through his body. Even as breath of a sick man washed over his face and neck, all he could feel was warm. Tension in his shoulders slowly drained as the ginger’s words sunk into his bones, as he shifted his hands to grip at Ichigo’s sides, feeling hot skin under his fingers. He didn’t even tense, meeting Grimmjow right where he was, sick or not.

Leaning back slowly, so his back was flush to the bed, Grimmjow pulled Ichigo onto him, so his head was on his chest, arms wrapped around him still. His left hand was bunched up loosely in the fabric of Grimmjow’s shirt. This was so like Ichigo, shaking up his foundation while the ginger fell asleep.

Releasing stale air from his lungs, Grimmjow sighed, and breathed back in, even though he felt like he was breathing in the weird funk of Ichigo’s spirit energy, he didn’t care. He could feel Ichigo relax into him, his body going limp, and edging closer back to sleep.

“You asked what I want,” Grimmjow started, pulling Ichigo closer, feeling his heartbeat hammer against his ribcage like it was his own. Maybe they could share it, for a little while. Ichigo nodded into his neck, sleepy, but still listening. Grimmjow swallowed.

“I want to stay for a little while.”

His voice was softer than he was used to, but the words were still loud in the quiet room, save for the fan blowing on them, hitting Grimmjow’s hair as it turned back and forth. With the heat radiating off Ichigo, it didn’t matter.

“Stay for as long as you want.”

Grimmjow nodded and listened to Ichigo’s breath steady out, until it was obvious he was asleep again. He pulled up the covers, at least until the sick idiot was covered to his liking, and remembered what he’d seen Kisuke do for Yoruichi when she was having a rough moment.

Brushing away a few rogue hairs from Ichigo's face, and swallowing hard, he pressed his lips on the ginger's forehead, quickly, softly, like he was never there. Pretending not to notice the small smile tugging at Ichigo’s lips, Grimmjow settled back and closed his eyes.

Maybe he’d take him up on his offer. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This is fairly different from my other, more light hearted stories, so I hope you enjoyed! I hope the ending isn't too hokey. I listened to Moln, by Menke almost exclusively while writing this. It's a beautiful song. Also the poem is by Higuchi Natsu(Ichiyo). As always, kudo's and comments are appreciated!


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